The First Week
by Oilux
Summary: That first week when Sherlock died was the hardest week of John's life.


Nothing that John had experienced in war compared to the pain he felt at watching Sherlock plummet that 100 feet to the sidewalk. No sound of bomb from war compared to hearing the sickening thunk that he had heard when Sherlock hit the pavement. Not even the disabled soldiers, who John had stitched back together himself, couldn't compare to the blood that drained down Sherlock's face, pouring into lifeless eyes. John let out a strangled cry, cellphone still in hand, trying his best to get to Sherlock's nonmoving body.

"Let me go! That's my friend!" John screamed, but the people wouldn't let go. Instead they just held him back tighter, pulling him back.

The police held him back, and ended up having to restrain him when they put the blanket over Sherlock. It didn't calm him down any, but it was the same red color that they had placed on Sherlock when they said that he was in shock. Maybe it was the same one that they had placed in Sherlock, and the fact that it could be calmed him down. After waiting for hours, a nurse finally came up to him.

"John Watson?" John immediately jumped up, looking at the nurse expectantly. "You were listed as the emergency contact for Sherlock Holmes."

'_He listed me as his emergency contact? When did he do that?' _John thought to himself. He broke out of his thoughts when the nurse started talking again.

"I'm sorry, there was nothing that we could do…" she trailed off, waiting to see what would happen. John just sat there, unsure of what to do.

"He can't be dead. He's Sherlock Holmes, he just can't be dead," John said, smiling at the nurse.

"I'm sorry sir," she said before she went back into the hospital.

For a while John just sat there, completely refusing to admit that Sherlock wasn't going to be around anymore. Eventually though, people dispersed, realizing that the drama was over. They went to go and live their lives, completely unaware that one man's life was changed forever. Ms. Hudson was called to take John back to his flat, where she sent him straight to bed. John didn't mind, figuring that the sooner he went to sleep the sooner that he would wake up from this horrible nightmare.

Within minutes, the war veteran John Watson was fast asleep in his bed.

* * *

John woke the next morning feeling worse than he had ever before in his life. There was an emptiness in his chest that just couldn't be explained. As he moved through the empty flat, John felt memories of yesterday rush through his mind. It hurt more than he ever thought possible.

John went into the living room, where he felt whatever energy he had drain from his body. He laid down on the couch, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about what had happened. Even staring at the ceiling reminded him of Sherlock. On the wall the smiley face with the bullet holes in it was smiling at him. John could almost hear Sherlock say 'bored' to him. He smiled at the memory, even though the smile felt like it had no place on his face right then.

John couldn't take one look around the flat without being reminded about Sherlock. While John had kept his blog to remember the cases that they did together, Sherlock kept mementos to remind him. There was the _'A to Z London Guide', _a small pink bag that was a replicate from the one in 'Study in Pink', a wolf figurine, Irene's phone was in the drawer, and there were other one's as well. It was wrenching to see the things that reminded him of everything that had happened between them.

* * *

The third day after Sherlock died, John shut down the blog. With the one final message to whoever was listening.

* * *

The fourth day, John actually managed to eat something. It wasn't much, but it was something. At least he knew he wouldn't die. Though without his only friends, John didn't see the point of staying around anymore. He knew that Ms. Hudson was bringing him food and other options.

* * *

On the fifth day, John had to organize the funeral. John invited everyone who Sherlock had met during his time, from his family to people at the station. Well except Anderson and Sally Donovan. When Sherlock had invited Lestrade, Lestrade had told him about what Sally had said. John had called everyone, personally inviting them to the funeral. Some had turned him down flat, but others actually had seemed sorry that Sherlock had died. It was different than what he had honestly expected, but it made John feel a little better to know that some people still believed.

* * *

On the sixth day, John went and talked to Ms. Hudson, who made him the best meal that he had ever had. She made him his favorite meal, with his favorite tea to help wash it all down. They didn't talk too much, but when they did talk it was pleasant. Purposefully avoiding the elephant in the room.

* * *

Exactly one week after Sherlock died, they held the funeral. John bought the most expensive tombstone his budget would allow. He had the letters encased in gold lettering, and spent what was left on a casket. The reception was a closed casket one, as per Mycroft's request. While everyone was there, John gave a speech.

"To some of you, I have nothing to say," John stared at the paparazzi that had infiltrated the funeral, "but to the rest of you, I thank you for coming.

"Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. He was my only friend, and no matter what happens I'll always believe in him."

That was all that John said during the entire funeral. Other people gave speeches, including Ms. Hudson and Lestrade, but John didn't say another word. Just like a soldier, he didn't cry either. He didn't cry when everyone placed flowers, he didn't cry when Mycroft apologized, and he didn't cry when the casket was lowered and he got to throw the first handful of dirt onto it.

Like a true soldier, John marched on and didn't shed a tear.

Eventually, everyone said their goodbyes and left. Though not without saying their condolences to John first. Once they were all gone, John stood in front of the tombstone, the fresh packed dirt beneath his feet. John knelt, placing the white lily that Ms. Hudson had given him before she left, onto the ground right before the tombstone.

"Sherlock, please. I know you, you can't be dead. Please Sherlock," John paused, a part of him didn't know why he was pleading, "Sherlock, just don't be dead."

John Watson, who months before walked with a limp, who not more than a month ago was in the Buckingham Palace, who just weeks ago walked in on a naked Irene Adler, walked away from Sherlock Holmes grave like a true soldier would.

* * *

Lately I've been having writers block, and I've have had this idea for a while, so I wrote it. Let me know what you think!


End file.
